Match
by Byronic Heroine
Summary: Misaki had thought that, even if Saruhiko took everything else from him, he would still have his pride. He was wrong. SaruMisa, non-con, almost PWP.


**Author's Notes**: I wrote this before the series ended, and I feel a little bad posting it now while everyone's trying to recover emotionally from that heartbreaking ending, but, well... here you go.

Here be dark, graphic non-con. Trigger warnings for rape, abuse, mutilation, and blood play. Definitely the most fucked-up thing I've ever written. If that's not your cup of tea, I suggest you turn back now.

* * *

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Maybe, in the past, it could have been all right. Back then there was trust, affection… maybe even love, though they were both hesitant to admit it.

"How does it feel, Misaki?" Saruhiko jeered.

Now there was this. Cold and dark and empty.

Saruhiko trailed his fingers lightly, gently over Misaki's mangled body, in stark contrast with before.

Before.

_He'd been no match for Fushimi. As their battle raged, minutes uneasily stretching into hours, Misaki's angry red aura grew dimmer and dimmer. And as its light faded, so did his ability to counter the ceaseless barrage of blows that Saruhiko threw his way._

"You'll never forget this," Saruhiko murmured, pausing to giggle with childish glee. "Not with these to remind you". Those teasing fingers suddenly tensed, and he raked his nails over Misaki's chest, reopening the cuts that he had inflicted with his blade. Blood welled up and spilled from the wounds, painting Misaki's skin with vivid crimson. The sight should have been satisfying, but it only angered Saruhiko. He was so sick of red. Nevertheless, he bowed his head and drew the flat of his tongue over the rivulets of blood, licking a trail up to Misaki's bruised collarbone.

He didn't like the sight of red, but he could appreciate the taste.

Misaki hissed as Saruhiko gripped his wrists and applied pressure to the strings of bruises there. Myriad other bruises lay scattered on his skin, his neck, torso, arms, legs, like points of a constellation. It was all too easy to recall how he'd received them.

_That had been the scariest part of the fight: when Saruhiko had forgone his sword in favor of sheer brute force. At that point Misaki was already exhausted, his aura virtually nonexistent. Saruhiko tackled him to the ground, straddling his body to keep him pinned there. And then the blows came and there was nothing Misaki could do to stop it. There was no technique, no finesse involved; just Saruhiko punching and clawing at him, grinning the grin of a madman. And when he was done, when Misaki was damaged enough for his liking, he simply threw back his head and laughed. Misaki, immobilized by the weight on top of him, could only watch, and be filled with the sinking horror that Fushimi had finally gone completely insane. He struggled weakly in a last futile attempt at escape, and was met with a sudden, oppressive silence that was somehow more disconcerting than the laughter. Saruhiko stared at him leeringly, and his eyes were those of a stranger. And then… and then he…_

"How does it feel, Misaki?" Saruhiko repeated. "How does it feel to be broken and corrupted?" Wandering hands passed roughly over his naked body, traversed over the cuts and bruises. "How did it feel when you were taken by the very person you hate the most? When I fucked you and made you mine?" Hearing him say it so crudely made it all the more real, all the more sickening. Misaki couldn't look at him. Looking at him meant that he acknowledged once and for all that this was real, and once that happened there was no going back.

Saruhiko grabbed him harshly by the jaw and yanked his face towards him, so that Misaki was forced to meet his eyes. "Oh, but you liked it, didn't you?"

_The kiss had come without warning. One moment Saruhiko was staring at him with those strangely lit eyes; the next moment his lips were on Misaki's, feverish and demanding. Misaki might have been able to kick or bite him if he'd really tried. But he found that his limbs were unresponsive, disjointed from his brain; he felt as though he was immersed in some kind of fever dream, that none of this was grounded in reality. So he simply didn't respond when Saruhiko's tongue wormed its way into his mouth, even though it felt invasive and wrong. He didn't react when Saruhiko deepened the kiss, when it became messier, more aggressive. Not even when Saruhiko tore off his sweater and began to feel him up beneath his thin undershirt, hands hot and heavy against his skin. Cool air met his bared body as more of his clothing was removed, and it was almost welcoming against the livid wounds that were carved into him._

_He heard rather than saw the clink of a belt buckle being undone. And then suddenly he was awake, and everything was too real._

Saruhiko ran his tongue along Misaki's cut lower lip, catching a stray drop of blood. "You must have liked it, you opened up for me so sweetly. You were practically begging for it, you little slut."

_"No," Misaki had gasped, "No… Saru… don't do this. Even you aren't fucked-up enough to do something like this!" And then he caught sight of Saruhiko's face, the eerie eyes and psychotic contortion of a grin. "…Are you?" he added, bile rising to his throat._

_"Oh, Misaki," Saruhiko tsked as he loomed over him, prying Misaki's legs apart to expose him even further. "Things have changed."_

_"No-!"_

_Saruhiko buried himself inside him in a single, savage thrust, gripping Misaki's hips hard enough to bruise. Misaki couldn't shout, couldn't struggle, couldn't think; his mind could only communicate one primal message to him, and that was pain. A splitting pain that seared and consumed him, tearing the air from his lungs so he couldn't even scream. Tears of humiliation leaked from his eyes as Saruhiko rutted against him, and when he did find breath, he managed only a shaky, rattling sob. "S-Stop… stop it…" he begged weakly as his body was wracked with another violent thrust._

_Saruhiko paused and raised his brow in mock confusion. "And why would I do that? I'm only giving you what you've always wanted."_

Maybe he had wanted Saruhiko at one point. But that was when they were friends and clansmen. Their bond had been one of fierce loyalty, the compassion and trust that was shared between brothers. In his own way, Misaki had loved Saruhiko. And he would have been willing to consummate that love physically, knowing that they had that bond of mutual respect and trust.

_But not like this. This had been all about power. This was Saruhiko revelling in the total dominance that he held over Misaki, delighting in the fact that he was solely responsible for the suffering that Misaki experienced, thriving on his fear. This was Saruhiko degrading him, destroying his sense of self-worth, making him feel like the lowest form of scum. There was no way Misaki could ever face himself, or anyone else, after this. He…_

_No._

_Even like this, Misaki refused to let himself think that way._

_He was still nearly unable to speak. But now he was at least able to think, even through the dark haze of pain. And so, in his head, he began to recite a mantra that was as familiar to him as his own reflection: "No blood. No bone. No ash."_

_Just that, within his mind, over and over. Even as Saruhiko humiliated him in every way he could, penetrated him with animalistic ferocity, made him cry, made him bleed, just the repetition of those three phrases was a small comfort. "No blood," his mind whispered as Saruhiko spread his legs wide and set his insides on fire. "No bone," as every square inch of his body was fondled and dirtied. "No ash," as fingernails gauged cruel crimson tracks in the flesh of his thighs. And when Saruhiko buried himself to the hilt as he climaxed, filling Misaki with his release… even then, Misaki squeezed his eyes shut and chanted to himself, "No blood. No bone. No ash."_

"Well, Misaki?" Saruhiko taunted. "How does it feel to lose everything?"

Misaki was lying on his back, coated in the filth of a deserted alleyway. He was dirty and bloody and bruised. He was entirely naked, painfully vulnerable. He had been violated, torn apart from the inside, the proof of the encounter drying on his abdomen and trickling out from between his legs. He was utterly broken.

He stared hard at Saruhiko, that familiar defiance finally resurfacing, and spat, "I wouldn't know, asshole."

Something in Saruhiko's face twitched; obviously that wasn't the answer he was expecting. "Whatever do you mean, Misaki?" he queried, his tone unnaturally relaxed.

"I mean," Misaki growled through gritted teeth, "that, no matter what you do, no matter what you take from me… you can't take my pride."

Saruhiko sat back, his face flickering between anger and annoyance to finally settle on an uneasy calm. "Your pride, hmm?" he murmured. He was silent and contemplative for a few moments. Then his face twisted into an unpleasant grin that made Misaki shudder in trepidation. "Well, then… I'll have to take that away too."

Misaki didn't understand what he meant until Saruhiko's hands ignited with brilliant red fire. After that it quickly became very, very clear.

His eyes widened in terror as the flickering flame drew closer. He could feel the heat radiating off of it, raising beads of sweat upon his skin.

That was all it took for him to snap.

"No… NO!" he shouted, feeling the world around him slowly come crashing down. His struggling was useless; he was still solidly pinned to the ground with no hope of escape. "You can't do this, you bastard! You CAN'T! Beat me up, fuck me" - his own words disgusted him, but he was past the point of no return, he would beg all he needed to - "do what you want with me… just not this. Please… please don't-"

The flame met his skin.

Saruhiko watched in fascination as the fire hissed and crackled against Misaki's Homra tattoo, the sadistic smile never leaving his face.

Misaki's vision went white-hot as he threw back his head and screamed. The flame scorched his skin, licked the flesh away, obliterated the mark that had stood there so proudly.

Saruhiko pulled down his shirt collar to display his own ruined mark. "Now we match," he proclaimed, laughing, his voice crackling like the flames.

Misaki's body shuddered as he sobbed. It was gone. His mark, his soul, his everything, his…

Saruhiko leaned in close, placed his lips next to his ear, and whispered, "There goes your pride… Misaki."


End file.
